


Grandstand Failed

by armanivs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adult Hermione Granger, BAMF Hermione Granger, Crying, F/M, Forced Marriage, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter is Dead, Hurt/Comfort, Marriage, Minister for Magic Tom Riddle, Possessive Tom Riddle, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Sane Tom Riddle, Shopping, Soul Bond, Time Travel, abraxas malfoy - Freeform, tomione - Freeform, volmione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28483080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armanivs/pseuds/armanivs
Summary: Voldemort announced the demise of Harry Potter and beckoned for any last-minute swaps to make themselves known.Hermione Granger stepped forward and gave him an earful to last a lifetime.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Hermione Granger/Voldemort
Comments: 40
Kudos: 235





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KrafTycoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrafTycoon/gifts).



> This small scene literally would not leave me alone till it was written, so here you go.

(You’re the weak one. You’ll never feel love or friendship. And I feel sorry for you. - prompt)

Hermione’s chest heaved as she slowly regained her breath after incessant spell casting in both defence and offence. Voldemort’s sickening announcement of Harry Potter’s demise churned guilt, fear and nausea within those siding against the dark lord. 

“Now is the time to declare yourself,” the vile man grinned maliciously; rotten, spiky teeth on full display. “Come forward and join us!” he paused, his cold, crimson eyes narrowing on the three figures that dared to curl beside the dead boy’s corpse. “Or die.”

Hermione collapsed by Harry’s body, slowly prying the wand he had stolen from their capture at Malfoy Manor from his tattered jacket pocket. She twirled the rather bland, wooden stick in her hand, relishing in the acceptance she felt by the magical aura surrounding it. She choked back a sob. Harry was truly dead. 

In the silence Hermione stood up and aimed her wand for the noseless creature. She stepped around Harry’s body till she was directly in front of Lord Voldemort. Observing through the corner of her peripheral vision, she noticed the sadness etched onto Professor Slughorn’s countenance, providing the teenaged girl the basis of her speech. 

“Lord Voldemort,” she addressed calmly; her eyes bloodshot yet dry, her stance steady despite the agony coursing through every muscle in her body. 

The Death Eaters laughed when their leader cackled menacingly, “I’ll admit, I expected better than a mudblood.”

Hermione ignored his insult and proceeded onward, “Do you remember the Battle of the Department of Mysteries?”

“Of course I do! Unlike—“

“You know what I realised?” she interjected, not bothering in listening to whatever demeaning insults he had to throw, “Harry’s words affected you.”

“Your darling Potter and I have exchanged more than just a few words, mudblood.” he sneered as his arms dropped to his sides. 

“Oh, so you’d like for me to reiterate them to you? I apologise,” she mocked, “I was under the impression that you had such an impeccable memory desirable by many.” Her eyes locked into the dishevelled state of Lucius Malfoy, “You were there. Tell your leader what Harry said.”

The long blonde haired man didn’t know how to respond. Of course he remembered the sixteen words that had whirred around his mind during his time spent incarcerated in Azkaban. He had tried to decipher how the young Potter (and Black) heir had managed to feel emotions of sympathy towards a man who had destroyed his life since the days he had learned to toddle. 

“Don’t remember?” Hermione Granger’s patronising voice cut through his thoughts. “No matter.” Her gaze shifted back onto Lord Voldemort courageously. “You claim yourself to be so powerful, so mighty; don’t you Voldemort?” she sneered, her face crumpling as though the very thought repulsed her. “Well let me remind you that it is you who is the weak one. You’ll never know love or friendship. And Harry felt sorry for you, the worthless man that you are.” 

A bitter chuckle escaped from her lips, “Though you’re not more of a man than you are a reptile, are you Voldemort?” 

The crimson eyed man held his wand in her direction lazily, “Your point is... mudblood?” he said with a bored tone. 

“Look around, Voldemort,” she spread her arms like he had done mere minutes ago, “Do you see the face of your old potions professor? Do you see the sadness, the pain you brought on him because of the actions you took to become powerful?” 

When the man didn’t look, her face contorted into fury. “Look at him!” she yelled, her free hand gesturing towards the usually jovial man attempting to hide his face behind a pillar as tears streamed from his eyes. 

Voldemort reluctantly glanced over before returning. 

“You know, I did some research about you.” Hermione continued in a softer tone, though her voice carried through the silent courtyard easily. “Tom Marvolo Riddle. Hogwarts’ treasured golden boy. Highest N.E.W.Ts scores since Dumbledore. Received an Order of Merlin during his later years as a Hogwarts student.” she recited the facts from memory, each word laced with increasing disgust as she listed the man’s pathetic achievements.

Voldemort smirked, “Still something I pride myself in.”

“Well you shouldn’t!” she roared, “Each time you destroyed your soul you replaced your intelligence with insanity! Look back at the meticulous planning that went in your every move back as a student; then look at the blatant heads-first-think-later act you’ve adopted since your first horcrux!”

“Shut up you filthy—“

“Perhaps,” she continued, “Perhaps if you had left your soul and the Potter family alone you would’ve been far more successful than you are now!” 

“I don’t care for my—“

“We know! Everyone knows that!” she yelled in frustration. “What is it that you wanted... power?”

Voldemort stayed silent. 

“When you travelled in your early twenties you gained far more knowledge and thus far more power than any other than Baba Yaga and maybe Grindelwald!” Hermione swiped at her cheek that began to itch, “You had your power, you insufferable megalomaniac! Why did you bother starting a war? What made you stoop so low to the point where you find pleasure in torturing, maiming, killing innocent children?!”

By now many of Voldemort’s loyal Death Eaters had their wands drawn, an action mirrored by the students, professors and aurors alike behind Hermione. 

“You think you’re the only one who had to sit and suffer in the forsaken orphanage?!” her breathing became ragged once again as she forced words past the lump in her throat. “Do you even remember a boy named James Granger? Do you remember a girl named Dorothy Swan?” 

Voldemort appeared to think for a moment before sneering, “They were inconsequential.”

“They were my grandparents!” Hermione spat. “The only reason you don’t remember them is because instead of antagonising your child self they left you alone! Did you even realise in your eleven year long pity party that Dorothy was a witch too?!”

“Was she? She must’ve been very weak. I never sensed an aura around her.” 

“She was a better wizard than you ever were!” Hermione defended hotly. “Not only was she a poor orphan like you, she was worse off because she was a girl! At least your words held some weight for you. Hers didn’t matter an ounce until she got married!”

“I digress.” Hermione swallowed, her dry throat screaming for the luxury of water. “Immortality is great until you get bored. Once you’ve explored everything there is to know, what will you do then? You’ll be wishing to kill yourself.”

The crimson eyed man snorted, “Never will I ever wish to die.”

“So you admit you’d get bored.” 

“I didn’t say that.”

“Nor did you deny it.” Hermione smirked before schooling her face again. “End this war. You’ve killed him now but if you still had a fraction of the intelligence that Tom Riddle had, you would’ve known that the prophecy nullified itself after your spell rebounded on you on All Hallow’s Eve.”

Hermione sighed. “End the war, please, Riddle.” 

Voldemort swallowed as those fighting alongside and against him all lowered their wands, leaving him as the only one with one brandished.

“Don’t call me by that filthy muggle name!”

“Fucking hell,” Hermione grumbled, “Are you going to end this war or not?”

“Conditions are dependant.” Voldemort answered smoothly. 

“Discuss it over owl with McGonagall or Shacklebolt then! Your main opponents are gone, you’ve practically won. Just take your bloody gang and leave!”

The loud sounds of disapparation rung through the grounds of Hogwarts as Hermione fell to her knees in exhaustion. Nobody came to aid the muggleborn who had managed to convince the dark lord to cease fire for they were all too stunned to move. 

The edges of her vision darkened as her body demanded rest. And with the briefest of smiles flickering over her lips, Hermione Granger slipped into unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plot credits (excluding chapter 1) to: @KrafTycoon

As the fearsome Dark Lord stood under the hot spray of the luxurious shower (courtesy of the Malfoys), the ashen man couldn’t help but ponder over the words of the girl he had dubbed as Undesirable #2. In no certain script had he confirmed to cease fire, though he supposed the battle that had ensued determining which male of the prophecy would live and which would die would be the final marker.

He had survived. The Potter boy had not.

Years of meticulous planning had boiled down to one short event that had resulted in him receiving a scolding that he assumed was what felt like when a mother admonished her child for misbehaving and although he felt thoroughly disgusted at himself for allowing such filthy scum that had managed to evade the unforgiving clutches of his Death Eaters to disrespect him in such a manner, he couldn’t help but think of the unequivocally degrading points she had highlighted regarding his life that were true.

Attempting to assassinate the Potters had been a brilliant idea in his mind as he had sat inebriated in his favoured rocking chair by the fireplace in the room he had claimed as his own in a manor that could oust him if it so wished. Using Quirinus Quirrell as his live host in order to steal the Sorcerer’s stone from the castle which he was the last surviving heir to had been another idea concocted through desperation for immortality. Possessing the life force and revealing the Chamber of Secrets’ existence for a second time had been another costly mistake that destroyed one of his most cherished (and if one were to ask, favourite) horcruxes. From then on his winnings and losings began to fluctuate dramatically up until Dumbledore had died and now the little mudblood chit that he had heard about from Bellatrix’s many stories on how she carved her like the filthy object she is had the nerve to make him question his actions?

Through scion Malfoy, Lord Voldemort had determined that Hermione Jean Granger was an exceptionally intelligent student with OWLs that were on par with both himself and Dumbledore. Opting to drop out in hunt for his horcruxes rather than remain at Hogwarts to complete her education – not like the students that attended learnt much considering the unwanted presence of the Carrow Twins – she had no N.E.W.Ts to her name but Voldemort was certain she would have similar results as his younger self.

Perhaps if she were present in the nascent of his unintentional downfall – no, not her; just her memories would suffice – he could save himself the humility and insanity he had imposed on himself from creating too many horcruxes. The Ministry had missed in destroying two time turners; one that lay between the breasts of the girl he was plotting around and one they hadn’t realised was in his possession due to their disbelief of his return. If Lord Voldemort could call on even a fragment of his past intellect, he was sure that he could manipulate the complex temporal magic of the time turner to be worked into a spell he could direct at her.

Wandlessly drying himself, the serpent-like man halted in front of a chest of drawers he warded heavily. Opening the middle one, he pulled out a silver chain with an intricate charm dangling from it. Turning to face the body length mirror, a malicious crimson glinted off of the seemingly innocent piece of jewellery as an evil smirk twisted his horrific features.

“Let the peripeteia begin.”

**ooOoo**

Two months had passed and the reconstruction of Hogwarts was well under way. Allowing Narcissa to overlook the building, Lord Voldemort allowed himself a grin within the privacy of the Chamber of Secrets as the fabrication of his new spell now could be ticked as complete. Apparating to the Ministry, the fearsome man declared for a certain Hermione Jean Granger to be brought in front of him alive and unharmed.

It wouldn’t do for his self-made saviour to be weak in the presence of his younger self.

Although her arrival wasn’t as prompt as he had demanded for it to be; three days later the pair found themselves sitting opposite each other in a warm room in the manor she was tortured in mere months ago.

“What do you want from me?” she had questioned immediately, ignoring the lack of other presence.

“You.” The crimson eyed, snakey man stated simply as he steepled his spidery fingers together.

Hermione recoiled with a disgusted expression, “I’ll have to decline-”

“Not in the manner that you are thinking,” he interjected swiftly, “Though there is a possibility of it happening once I’m finished with you,”

“Finished? What do you mean-” before she could complete her sentence a silent, wandless stunner had hit her square in the chest leaving no time for her to react and defend herself.

“Sleep,” Voldemort muttered as he lathered his magic onto her, forcing her to succumb into a lethargic state. Making haste, the Dark Lord ensured the girl had enough supplies to last her until his past self and she could find each other and read the notes he had addressed to each. Finally, he summoned a knife and slit their palms and grimaced as he allowed their blood to merge before chanting: “Et sanguis sanguinem tenetur in unum. Videtur quod votum non nocere aliis est non occidere. Mote it be.”

A bright glow surrounded her sleeping and his crouched forms as the blood vow settled and was acknowledged by their magical cores. Nodding at its completion, Lord Voldemort summoned his wand and began hissing in the language of snakes all the while twisting his phoenix feather core wand in an intricate fashion. Striking his bone white wand in one final, sharp movement; the loud sound of disapparation resounded around the room as Hermione Granger disappeared from the timeline she originated in and became the covert saviour of the wizarding world that for which Dumbledore would never thank her for.


	3. Chapter 3

Waking up underneath soft linen that was scented in a deliciously masculine fragrance hadn’t been what Hermione had expected after blacking out in the middle of a solitary tea party with the infamous Lord Voldemort. Internally berating herself for her carelessness in leaving her defences down, the witch clambered off of the warm bed only to notice her change in attire. Her previous clothes that were torn and worn from its consistent use and lack of proper cleansing had been replaced with a simple oxford that was undoubtedly a man’s considering her arms had been engulfed by the sleeves and the bottom reached mid-thigh. On a lonely peg on the door, a simple black robe hung allowing Hermione to confirm that she was in the presence of a wizard.

Tying the robe around herself to shield as much skin as she could, the witch mustered as much Gryffindor bravery as she could find and pulled open the door to find herself facing a small living room with an attached kitchen wherein an alabaster skinned man with dark hair styled in those of the 40s flicked through what she could identify as an edition of the Daily Prophet.

Clearing her throat, she made her presence known, “Er.. hi?”

The man looked up, his facial features giving away that he was somewhere within his mid or late twenties whereas his expression gave away nothing. “Hello indeed.” He said without offering as much as a smile.

Tossing the paper onto the counter behind him, the mysterious man crossed his arms over his chest and shot her a withering glare that reminded the witch uncannily of Lord Voldemort who was definitely the culprit of her predicament. Moistening her lips she let her eyes roam around his small abode, eyeing the potential exits she could use if in need of an escape. “Do you know how I got here?”

“You fell from the ceiling,” he said in a guarded yet bored tone. His casual manner of speech caused the corners of her mouth to twitch inn amusement before she clamped down firmly on the bubbles of hysteric laughter building within her.

Now was not the time.

“Hilarious. How did I actually get here?”

“I am not lying Miss…?”

“Hermione,” Hermione nearly smacked herself for revealing her true name. She didn’t even know where she was and if she was sent here by the hands of Voldemort then her very name would increase the intensity of the crazed experiments the handsome man was probably trying tenfold. “And you?”

“Tom,” he stated with a hint of a masked sneer, “Though I intend to change that soon.”

Hermione desperately hoped he wasn’t who she thought he was. Forcing a smile, she asked if there was anything of interest in the newspaper. Tom handed her the article and silently curled his fingers around his wand as he watched the witch’s eyes widen in shock and later fury once she read the fine print stating the date.

_21 st July 1952_

Without wasting a second, he brandished his wand and forced himself through her carefully constructed shields as her cognac orbs inadvertently (on her part) locked with his dark greens. “Legilimens!”

A sudden stabbing force of agony spread through his body as though his magic was devouring him as punishment whilst he tore through the girl’s recent memories. Incidentally finding himself in one wherein she was in the presence of a foul appearing human-creature, Tom recognised the aura of a blood vow initiated by the thing naming itself… Lord Voldemort. Running translations through his mind at what he could only fathom as a million miles per minute, the twenty-four years old man roughly depicted the ritual as one that was similar to a marriage binding though without the vows of love. The creature calling himself what Tom wished to revert his filthy muggle name to had essentially made the witch – who he learned was a mudblood – his wife and ensured that neither of them could harm (with extents) or kill each other.

Pulling himself out of the girl’s conscious, Tom staggered back and gripped onto the edge of the counter as he slowly regained his breathing. Hermione’s eyes had clenched shut as drops of crimson blood cascaded down her cheeks like tears. Gritting his teeth, the dark haired man wandlessly cleansed the girl – only to stop his shirt from being stained by her filthy blood – and cast a simple “Rennervate,” to wake her up.

Once it appeared as though she had found her bearings, Tom unleashed his interrogation, “What is that hideous creature labelling himself as the heir to an esteemed founder?”

“What is your full name?”

“There is no reason for you to know,”

“Without confirmation I cannot tell you. Certainly you understand that?”

Narrowing his eyes, Tom confessed, “Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

A bitter sneer marred the soft features that had been sharpened by war, “That hideous nose-less man that you saw is yourself, Lord Voldemort.” She spat the anagram with hatred.

“And why am I supposed to believe you?”

“I don’t care if you believe me or not. The day you die the world will be a much better place. Where is my wand?”

“Elsewhere,” he responded cryptically, “Where are the letters… I gave you?”

Hermione tilted her head slightly in confusion, “Letters?”

“Honestly woman, am I really going to lose my mind to such an extent that I send myself a brainless bint as my supposed saviour?”

Hermione snorted, “Losing your mind is putting it lightly,”

Tom narrowed his eyes, “What would you call it then?”

“A severe case of megalomania.” Then she sighed, “What are you waiting for? Kill me already,”

“I. Can’t.” he hissed.

“Why not? Just wave your wand and cast that blasted unforgiveable you love,”

“Which one are you referring to? I enjoy the usage of all three.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, “Of course you do.” She muttered under her breath before glaring at him, “Just say Avada Kedavra and be done with it. I don’t want to be here anymore.”

“All the more reason to force you to stay,” Tom flashed her his million-dollar smile still untainted by the dark magic he had explored in his Hogwarts days.

“Not like I can go anywhere else,” Hermione grumbled as she readjusted herself so her back was supported against the door of a cupboard filled with a solitary set of utensils. “So, dearest king of dumb and dumber, what are you going to do with me?”

“Well initially I was going to torture information out of you-”

“How delightful,” Hermione clapped with sarcastic cheer. She couldn’t fathom where her snarkiness was coming from and despite knowing the danger she was in simply being within a five-mile radius of the formidable man, her mind to mouth filter seemed to have evaporated since she had travelled backwards in time.

Tom glared at her, his jaw clenching as he fought to keep his ire under control lest he result in his magic punishing him for defying the vow his future counterpart had made. “- however, given the vows made neither of us can harm or kill each other without our own magic and blood rebelling against us.”

“I think I’ll be fine living as a squib.”

“My apologies, I forgot you were stupid. Your magic will kill you and put you through pain worse than the Cruciatus which I am sure you have been placed under many times.”

“Remind me to kill Bellatrix when she’s born.”

Tom raised his eyebrows in light shock, “What happened to your goodie-goodie no killing virtue?”

Hermione shrugged, “Lost it some time back. War does that to you. How old are you?”

“Evidently older than you. Are you at least twenty?”

“Eighteen.”

“What?!”

“What were you expecting?”

“I didn’t think children would be sent to fight in war. Surely I didn’t-”

“Don’t think of yourself so mighty and gracious, Riddle.” Hermione scowled, “At the age of 55 you attacked a baby because of a bloody prophecy you could’ve ignored. At the age of 68 you duelled a fourteen-year-old boy and tried to kill him and by 71 you succeeded in that part only.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she fought back the sob threatening to break past her trembling lips as she continued her rant in hatred of him and everything to do with him, “You – a man fifty odd years our senior – ruined our chances of a normal childhood all because of your paranoia stemmed from a prophecy created by a _fucking_ _fraud_!”

“Language,” Tom admonished, feeling uncomfortable in being in the presence of a crying woman alone without the ability to command somebody else to offer comfort he simply could not give.

“Oh fuck language!” Hermione snarled as she stood up, “This is your fault and only you are to blame regardless of whether you’ve committed the acts by now or not!”

The sound of his bedroom door slamming shut echoed through his small flat, the force rattling some of the furniture as Tom lethargically slid to the floor.

What was he meant to do?


	4. Chapter 4

Not wishing to leave his enemy alone in his property, Tom politely waited an hour before entering his room. Upon noticing the witch’s figure sprawled atop of his bed, the man clicked his tongue as he pondered over where he would sleep for the remainder of the night. It was ungentlemanly of him to force a woman to slumber on a couch and even more so to place her there when there is evidently a bed that she could occupy.

But it wasn’t as though anybody knew of the witch’s existence considering she only arrived in his abode a few hours prior to their argument.

Their argument. Him and his wife. A growl of frustration escaped him as he berated his psychotic future-self for binding each other together. Perhaps that’s what he could do instead; research the bloody ritual and reverse it so he could be a free man once more. Changing his attire into something far more comfortable, Tom entered the spare bedroom he had transformed into a small office and scoured through the numerous dark books he had collected through his years as working as a lowly shop assistant.

The first of the sun’s rays unfiltered through the window broke the dark haired man from his accidental slumber. The sweet scent of what he recognised as pancakes wafted around his small apartment and triggered his salivary glands with hunger. Stretching to remove any kinks he had accumulated after dozing off at an awkward angle, the satisfactory crack of his joints resetting allowed him to exit through the door and greet the witch that he was now condemned to live with.

Hermione appeared to be in a fairly chipper mood though he doubted it would last long once the serotonin high she seemed to have found herself in levelled out. As she flipped a pancake in the pan smoothly, Tom couldn’t help but raise a questioning eyebrow at the light blue shirt and black trousers that were both extensively oversized that she had changed into from the white shirt he had put her in.

“You haven’t yet questioned whether I undressed you or not,” he stated conversationally as he swiped the small plate with five pancakes piled onto it.

“I know.”

“You do not care?”

“Of course I do,” she said whilst sliding another pancake onto a plate for herself, “I know you used magic, so no harm done.”

“How do you know I didn’t leave you naked for a while before putting the other cloth on?”

Hermione stared at him, “Do you want me to accuse you?” she rolled her eyes at his indecipherable mask, “When I woke up this morning that realisation did occur to me, so I did a few scans and such to check if you placed any curses on me while I slept.”

“Without a wand?” he asked sounding slightly impressed.

“Basic auror and healer training. Constant Vigilance. Understand?”

“You are a healer?”

Hermione shook her head, “Not completely though I managed to finish the first few months of the course.”

“And the auror part?”

“Fighting in battle should suffice.”

“True,” Tom conceded, “I found a passage that has some resemblance of the ritual I.. Lord Voldemort used to bind us,”

“Finally going to give up on that moniker?”

“Only if I can come up with a new one,”

Hermione forked a piece of her chocolate syrup covered pancake into her mouth. Swallowing what she presumed as the best pancakes she had made in a while, she questioned the dark man sitting opposite her, “Why do you hate your name so much?”

“From what I saw in your memories you already know the answer to that,”

“I also know that you tend to tell people what they want to hear rather than what you truly believe. Now that we are married,” here she grimaced, “there shouldn’t be so many secrets,”

“Who’s to say we will remain bound for much longer? If I find a reversal, then the secrets I spill will leave me vulnerable to you.” Tom’s eyes hardened, “Not something I find myself fancying.”

“What was the translation of the incantation Voldemort used?”

“The gist of it was that neither of us could harm or kill each other,”

“Do your secrets have the potential to harm you if they become known?” she questioned.

“If in the wrong hands, what do you think?” he snarled.

“Dependant on who you consider to be the wrong hands.” Hermione commented as she ate another bite, “Your current enemies were my allies and your allies were my enemies. Quite the predicament, don’t you think?”

Tom licked his dry lips, “Quite.”

Standing up, Hermione allowed Tom to take his final pancake off of his used plate before placing it in the sink to wash with hers. An awkward silence fell over them as they both busied themselves in cleaning and reading until the green eyed man broke it with a loud “Found it!”

Spread on the desk of his study lay an old tome that Hermione figured was undoubtedly dark in content with scrawl written in the dead language Ancient Babylonian. The golden flicker of a translation spell possibly crafted by the man himself revealed words she could decipher in Latin. With her further knowledge from the future, the young witch aided the translation to reveal the name of the ritual as: _Fide Imperium_ , or forced loyalty.

The already absence of Hermione’s healthy pallor blanched further upon the realisation that Lord Voldemort had not only thrust her back in time but had also forced her to ensure that his younger self failed to make the mistakes he had done so during his ascent to power. She swallowed thickly as the fragile book collided with the smooth surface of the table. Her breathing became heavy once more and the hidden fury she had fought to keep at bay upon arrival unleashed itself as she glared at the dark man behind her. Sparks crackled around her hair that slowly began to frizz under the intensity of the power she was exerting and the pace blood was reaching her head. Attempting to control her magic lest she end up on the receiving end of Tom’s ire by blowing his abode up, Hermione swiftly left for the bathroom wherein she turned the shower onto its coldest setting and sat under the icy spray.

“Bastard, bastard, bastard! I’m going to kill him, even if it kills me!” she grumbled under her breath as she slowly rocked herself whilst droplets of refreshingly cool water soaked the borrowed clothes of her… what was he? Husband?

The door to where she was sat in slowly creaked open, revealing the man of her fury himself.

“What do you want?” she spat as she wrapped her arms around her knees.

“I…” he began before cutting himself off with a confused expression, “I don’t know really. Coming here felt like a good idea,” he said as if that explained anything.

“If you have nothing to say then leave.”

“This is my flat.” He deadpanned.

“I am a woman in a bathroom in a shower.”

“A woman who is also fully clothed under cold water which no sane person would do,” he countered.

“You know; I always did wonder whether you showered when you were snake-face.” Hermione commented offhandedly.

Tom rolled his eyes as he turned the knob to a more comfortable temperature, “With how clean he looked at your tea party in comparison to the battle, I think it’s safe to say he did.”

Hermione observed as he clambered to sit in front of her, mimicking her position, “Yes but he was dirty then, even animals would wash themselves. I meant on a regular basis.”

“I shower daily,”

“Good to know,” the witch bit her tongue to prevent herself from accidentally insulting the formidable man that had been as decent as a budding Dark Lord could get. “Why are you still in here?” she questioned as she pushed her hair behind her shoulders.

“Cooling off,”

“The water’s warm,”

“I’m not insane unlike you,”

Hermione cackled and tilted her head backwards, inadvertently giving Tom a front-row view to her soaked figure underneath the translucent blue shirt. “You’re one to talk about insanity,”

“I am not insane,” he retorted as he subconsciously eyed his apparent wife appreciatively, “But you definitely are for remaining in a shower alone with a man. What will the others think?”

“Who others? Nobody knows me but I know all of them.”

“Care to share?” he asked, referring to the secret intel she had due to her coming from the future.

“No,” Hermione finally looked back at him, her dark eyelashes coated with droplets of water and her face sprinkled with the remnants of water that had dripped off. A light flush spread over her cheeks from the heat of the water, darkening slightly under the intensity of Tom’s gaze. “Since I am effectively stuck here, mind helping me get a job?”

“Women don’t normally work unless they are the last of their line and the males are elderly or absent.”

“Well this woman has to at some point earn something,” she glared, “I can’t even get married properly due to the Fide Imperium bond.”

“My pay as an assistant barely passes for just me,” Tom moved so he too was under the warmth of the water.

“Evidently,” Hermione snarked, “Why don’t you invest in renting properties?”

“Where would I gain the finance to even purchase one?”

“Where’s my beaded bag?” Hermione questioned.

“With your wand elsewhere,”

The witch groaned, “It’s been identified that we cannot harm each other-”

“Much to my dismay,”

Ignoring Tom, Hermione continued, “-so just give me my wand and bag so we can sort through whatever you decided to send me backwards with.”

“Well I’m not going to bring parchment into the shower, silly chit,”

Hermione smiled tightly, “I know that, I meant after we get out.”

“So it’s _we_ now?”

“No- I- argh! That’s not what I meant and you know it!” Hermione stumbled over her words as the blush on her cheeks darkened.

Unable to resist, Tom’s rapidly warming hand reached out to grab a hold of her flushed countenance. Freezing under his touch, Hermione’s eyes slowly flickered to his dark ones that seemed to have lightened temporarily in comparison to their appearance when they were eating. Subconsciously moistening her lips, the desire to have a taste of those forbidden lips of his increased till they both began to slowly lean in.

“What are you doing to me, witch?” the dark haired man mumbled as one of Hermione’s hands lifted up to brush a lock of curly hair falling over his eye.

Something within their chests and in the deepest pits of their minds thrummed to life as eventually their lips met in a slow, intimate dance. The sounds of water hitting the shower tiles became muffled as Tom’s hand crept up Hermione’s drenched back and tangled itself within her messy, caramel curls. On instinct, one hand fiddled with the smaller curls on the base of his nape while the other rested on what she could appreciate as a toned chest in case she felt the need to push him away. A pleasant, comforting sensation washed over the both of them as their bound magic mingled and caressed each other with curiosity and lust fuelled by the bond made in 1998.

Only when the requirement for oxygen became too much of a burden to bear, a smirk filtered its way onto Tom’s face as he resisted her struggling attempts in moving further away. “Maybe my psychotic alter-ego knew what he was doing,”

Hermione snorted, the impassioned atmosphere breaking into shambles as she retorted with a fervent shake of her head, “I highly doubt that.”


	5. Chapter 5

"You took up residence in Malfoy Manor as far as I knew," Hermione said as she let the pad of her index finger to brush softly against the spine of one of the books Tom had allowed her to peruse. "Something about Abraxas, I think was his name, being an old acquaintance,"

"Abraxas and I knew of each other at Hogwarts," Tom supplied absently as he turned the page of an ancient tome that was so obviously Dark in nature given the innumerable wards he had had to dismantle before even attempting to open it to the contents page. "He was my most trusted then,"

"Was?" the witch questioned.

Tom nodded once, "His family had taken me in. A surrogate family so to speak once my heritage as heir to Slytherin had been revealed,"

A ghost of a reminiscent smile passed over Hermione's lips as she thought of the Weasleys who had so kindly unofficially adopted her into their large clan despite being of blood that had caused them to be defined as Blood Traitors. "I had a family like that," she said quietly, "They helped me understand bits and pieces that couldn't be interpreted through literary means,"

Hermione felt something softly caress the weak walls guarding her privacy. Occlumency was something she could not grasp a hold of as easily as she could with other spells and Mind Arts. Her mind, continuously thinking and refusing to stop would not allow the thoughts she wished to be hidden to withdraw from the centre stage, leaving her vulnerable to any skilled Legilimens. Although her mind was shielded enough to withstand an attack from a lesser wizard, giving her time to attack and remove the intruder; Lord Voldemort, comparable to Albus Dumbledore, was the predator that she could not fend off. If he so much as pushed his finger as though he were pressing the buttons of an elevator, they would all collapse, leaving him free to look as he pleased.

And that was what he did, though rather than forcing it all to crumble to the ground like meaningless dirt, he carved a door with a magical lock only controllable by him. How he had managed to do so was unclear to the witch yet in the depths of her subconscious she knew it was a form of art that she would be looked down upon by her friends and family should she attempt to use it for her own needs.

Friends and family that wouldn't exist for another twenty something years. And even then, they would never be able to reconcile for their age differences, their experiences, their dynamics would differ too much for them to regain their lost bond.

"Harry Potter," his voice brought her back to attention, "Your... boyfriend?" he sneered in distaste at the word.

A mirthless laugh escaped her as a lone tear pooled in her right eye, "Far from it," she frowned, "We loved each other like a brother would a sister, but nobody understood that,"

Tom remained quiet as he observed her as she continued to talk.

"In fourth year," she began to admit, her predicament forcing her to understand that she would never be able to travel back to her future, no matter how horrific and grotesque it was, "The Tri-Wizard tournament was held. There was a reporter from the Daily Prophet and she wrote a disgusting article about myself, Harry and another Champion integrated in a love triangle," another humourless giggle, "Both of them were so sweet about it as well. You should've seen the looks on everyone's faces when they saw me attend the Yule Ball with the Durmstrang Champion. It was as though they had expected for me to come alone!"

Tom usually did not care for meaningless chatter such as what Hermione was doing; however, the fond twinkle in her cognac eyes as she remembered the joys those of her past had brought her prompted him to bite back any demeaning comment. One shouldn't misunderstand as this small act proving Tom's budding affection for the time travelling witch, for he was merely making note of who he could kill but shouldn't, if only as a reward for the salvation the girl was to bring to him.

However, one should know that Tom Marvolo Riddle was a possessive man, much like his ancient (albeit insane) ancestors. He did not like that the witch he had taken some form of an interest to had had menial crushes on others before him; however, there was little he could do as for now, they were merely recreations of her imagination as their parents most likely had just been birthed.

Clearing his throat, Tom did what he did best, change topics, "Tell me more of the prophecy that is to be,"

At this, Hermione glanced at him from the corner of her eye before reluctantly nodding, "I'll tell you, but I want a vow that you will do your best to not intentionally act on it. Let nature run its course,"

Tom licked his lips, a frown marring the beautiful visage of his aristocratically structured face, "Is it something that aids in my downfall?"

"Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill," Hermione quoted as she curled up on her armchair by the fireplace.

"You're referring me to Macbeth?" he sounded unimpressed.

"To an extent," she said with her eyes closed, "Tell me Vold—Tom, what makes you so different from Macbeth?"

"Well for starters I am not easily swayed by those around me,"

"But you are tantalised by the idea of power. Power that the three witches represent in our edition of the play. Next,"

"I am not a tyrant." Tom stated boldly, "Nor am I insane enough to hallucinate bloody daggers following me around for killing people,"

"No, you're not." Hermione agreed, "Not at the moment. Give it twenty years and you'll be known as the Darkest Wizard to grace the planet. People will fear to say your name not due to the danger surrounding it, but due to the taboos you placed or will place," then she frowned, "I doubt the two braincells you were resurrected with was enough for you to form hallucinations,"

Tom clicked his tongue at the jab, "I haven't committed regicide,"

Hermione glared at him, "Had there been a monarchy, you would've. You committed patricide instead which is arguably worse."

"I sleep perfectly well at night. If I recall correctly, Macbeth said he murdered sleep,"

The witch rolled her eyes, "You sleep knowing you have your horcruxes as failsafes. Had the idea of horcruxes and immortality not existed, how would you sleep with your paranoia of death?" Hermione sighed, she'd had enough, "That's more than substantial amount of evidence. Take a page from the book and avoid where he went wrong. Where you went wrong."

Deciding that his presence was suffocating with the way that his penetrative gaze bore into her eyes, Hermione stood up from her comfortable position and headed to the kitchen to bake a batch of her mother's brownies.

If the bastard still wanted to take over the world, he could do so afterwards.

**ooOoo**

The brownies were set on the cooling rack (that Hermione had made by transfiguring a spoon) by the time Tom had exited his study.

Hermione was in a lighter mood than she had left that room in and was merrily humming away as she cleansed the utensils she had used to make the batter for her treats. Once the final bowl had been set on the drying rack, the witch turned around to see her husband looking at the chocolatey delights.

"They should be cold enough to eat," she informed kindly as he levitated a small plate towards him.

"You eat one first,"

Hermione narrowed her eyes but did as ordered, "You know, the first step towards a prosperous marriage is trust."

"I know,"

"And it's not like you didn't ensure that I couldn't kill you even if I desperately wanted to," she ignored his response, "Paranoid megalomanic bastard that you are,"

Tom rolled his eyes at her insult as he carved a perfect rectangle and removed it with such precision that Hermione idly approved of him joining one of those satisfying cooking shows.

"I want to go out,"

Tom looked up with a raised eyebrow, "A bit late for that, we're already married."

Hermione facepalmed in annoyance , "I meant outside. I want to wear my own clothes. I want to breathe in fresh air. I want to go to a bookstore or a library or anything! Just away from this tiny little hovel,"

"That can be arranged, so long as you promise not to even try and escape,"

"What good will me escaping do?" Hermione snapped, "I haven't got any money or possessions of my own apart from whatever's in my purse that you still have hidden somewhere. I can't fend for myself without my wand either!"

"Don't you ever wish to have the ability to perform magic without a wand?" Tom said as he reached forward with his clean hand to wrap one of her curls around his finger. "Don't you ever wish to not have to rely on a stick that can easily leave you vulnerable?"

Hermione swallowed. Of course she had wished that she had spent more time practicing her wandlessly abilities rather than leaving it at a simple Confundus, a few basic medical analysis spells and other trivial charms. The vast majority of her magical knowledge relied heavily on the flicks and twists of her wrists and the pronunciation of words from dead or lost languages. "Maybe," she admitted as though it was a crime.

"Then what if," his voice had dropped to just above a whisper, "As repayment for your invaluable advice, I teach you whatever you'd like,"

Closing her eyes, Hermione envisioned herself being able to bend her magic to her will as easily as Tom had shown to do so many times. She imagined the relief she could have mid duel, knowing that despite the lack of a medium to channel her power through, she could still unleash her fury and ensure her safety through other magical means.

A warm palm rested on her face, a dexterous thumb brushing the curve of her cheek softly, "You know that you wouldn't require much of a filter with me as you would with a mentor such as Dumbledore,"

He leaned in, his hot breath encasing her lips with a scalding warmth as he hovered his sinful mouth over hers, "You could be the one to Look like the innocent flower and be the serpent under't,"

Hermione forced a weak laugh, "I thought you disliked Macbeth,"

"Only when you positioned me as him," Tom hummed as he threaded his fingers into her riotous hair. He pulled away, leaving the witch cold and yearning for more— not that she'd ever admit it verbally to him. "Make the vows now and we can do what you want tomorrow."

Hermione found herself murmuring her agreement as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his lips to hers.


	6. Chapter 6

If there were two things that Hermione had learned from the night prior, it was that Tom Riddle was inexplicably wondrous at sex and he was also prone to possessive cuddling in the post-coital afterglow.

Stretching her sore limbs, the witch slowly edged her way to the shower after detangling herself from her husband’s stiff arms and proceeded to wash off any lingering remnants she had missed in her tired state. It was truly a wonder how she had gone from loathing the man with every inch of her being to fucking him because of a few well placed, sensual touches. Naturally, Hermione assured herself that there had been little to no chance of receiving a dosage of any type of infatuation potion and had cast medical checks to ensure that nothing had been placed on her while she was dizzied with lust.

Had they used a contraception charm last night?

Hermione truthfully couldn’t remember and her scans detailed the absence of lingering contraceptive magic. She shuddered at the thought of having to ask.

Thoroughly cleansed and smelling as lovely as the man himself, the curly haired witch frowned at the crisp white shirt hanging from the hook of the door. It had been close to ten days since she had last worn the garment meaning she had only been in the past for ten days. Time moved awfully slow in the fifties, Hermione mused as she dried her hair with the towel Tom had brought her. Although the rough texture did little to ease the frizzing of her curls, the witch didn’t feel it necessary to pack the multitude of conditioners and serums her mother had bought for her a few weeks prior to being subjected to the Obliviate charm as her priority had been more for practicality than beauty.

And now, probably only three or four were on the market.

Leaving the bathroom, Hermione raised a surprised eyebrow at the sight of the fearsome yet attractive Lord Voldemort tapping his foot impatiently on the floor like an unimpressed father. “Honestly woman, it wouldn’t kill you not to use all of the hot water,” he hissed before slamming the bathroom door shut.

Blinking owlishly, Hermione shrugged. It was his fault for sending her back in time, now he would have to deal with the consequences of having a teenaged witch who hadn’t yet had the chance to fully explore the depths of her feminine vanity living with him.

Cackling manically within the momentary privacy of her mind, Hermione turned on the stove as she whisked four eggs together; patiently cooking two large omelettes while the evil dark lord bathed.

**ooOoo**

“Can I have my wand now?” Hermione asked with an expectant hand raised after they had completed making their wizard’s oaths.

“Wait,” he ordered before disappearing into his study. Hermione – a sorted into Gryffindor for her spectacular moments of brashness – followed the formidable man in attempt to catch at least the minutest of glimpses as to where he had kept her wand and purse hidden only to find his large frame blocking the sight of the small, camouflaged alcove that only allowed his blood to pass. “Nice try, witch,” he had commented as he placed the vinewood, dragon heartstring core wand into her hands.

A warm, refreshing wave of energy filled her as she made contact with the only thing she could truly claim as hers after ten days of separation. The core of the wand pulsed rhythmically in synchronisation with the thrum of the raw magic coursing through her veins. It felt as though she had momentarily stepped back into Ollivanders shop as she had when she was eleven years old on her first trip to Diagon Alley and had finally found the wand that had chosen her for her qualities.

Overcome with sheer happiness at the reunion, Hermione couldn’t stop herself in time from hugging her wand’s captor. The dark haired, dark eyed man stiffened under her touch. Despite having been in many more intimate positions the night earlier, Tom found them incomparable to the innocent catharsis of joy the witch he found himself bound to expressed. It made his stomach feel off in a manner it never had before and he idly began to wonder whether the egg he had eaten hadn’t been fully cooked.

“Sorry!” Hermione scrambled away from him once the rational part of her rain caught up with her, “Accident. Sorry.” She apologised hastily in slight fear of his reaction.

Tom nodded once before he pointed his wand at her. Gasping, Hermione’s eyes filled with dread as her mind raced to decide which curse he was likely to place on her. Subconsciously, she took a step back; her head tilting to face sideways and her weight supported by the wall behind her as she waited for the pain to fill her from crown to toe.

Noticing her protective stance, the dark haired man slowly stepped forward; two pianist’s fingers curling around her chin to force the witch to look in his direction. He leaned forward, placing a brief kiss to her temple as he silently transfigured the shirt she was wearing into a classily modest dress. Another kiss to her cheek saw him summoning one of his outgrown robes (that had remained in pristine condition under his care) and fastening it onto Hermione with small, wandless adjustment spells till it fell off aesthetically from her slim figure.

“We will be going to Diagon Alley to get you some more appropriate clothing,” he informed quietly, “Then tomorrow we will be heading to Hog’s Head to meet with-”

“Don’t go there,” Hermione interrupted. She took Tom’s silence as a notion for her to continue, “It’s run by Aberforth Dumbledore – brother to Albus Dumbledore. If you’re planning on having meetings with your Death Eaters then it’s better off you have it in the Three Broomsticks where people will stay out of your way,”

“Death Eaters?”

Hermione frowned, “Isn’t that what your group of sychophants are called?”

“With insanity there was clearly a loss of intelligence,” Tom clicked his tongue, “They are called the Knights of Walpurgis. I will send an owl-”

“Wouldn’t a patronus be easier?”

Tom licked his lips, “If you can cast one, yes. Otherwise you have to stick to normal wizarding mail services,”

Hermione tilted her head with a small frown. Reaching up, she combed a few of the crooked eyebrow hairs before firing him a grin, “Five galleons that by the end of next year I can get you to produce a corporeal patronus,”

The dark eyed man rolled his eyes while shaking his head, a ghost of a smile brushing across his lips as he cherished the girl’s determination, “Game on, witch,” he challenged before dragging her out of the door and apparating them into the centre of Diagon Alley.

**ooOoo**

Hermione and Tom found themselves roaming around the extensive shop named Twilfitt and Tattings that had price tags far higher than they could ever be able to afford on Tom’s lowly shop-assistant salary.

“How exactly are you planning on paying?” Hermione hissed quietly as her husband held dresses to her body and decided whether they would suit her or not.

The dark haired man raised a condescending eyebrow, “Who said I’ll be paying?” he retorted as he found a smaller size of an elegant, lilac dress robe, “Malfoy will be arriving within a few moments to help with your new wardrobe. On his vaults, of course,”

“Malfoy?!” she nearly yelled but bit her tongue in time to stop herself, “I hate them. I don’t want anything from them at all,”

“Not even revenge?” he asked, his voice a silky caress on her hearing as he disapproved of a rather hideous mustard coloured cloak. “You forget that I can see the dreams that stop you from sleeping properly, Hermione,”

“Then you will have realised that I truly want revenge on the Blacks, Dolohov and Lestrange,”

“But what about that blonde boy named after a constellation, Draco Malfoy was it?”

Hermione bit her lip. Draco Malfoy had been an utter prat to her and they had been nothing short of enemies during their Hogwarts years although the night they were captured in his home, his refusal to identify them allowed a minute amount of animosity to fade. “He tried to help as best as he could-”

“A year after he realised he couldn’t cope,”

“Voldemort was living under his ancestral roof,” Hermione snapped, “He couldn’t afford to get help from Dumbledore without being found out and killed,”

Tom exhaled sharply, “Fine. As payment for the slurs he had called you in your first four years when Voldemort wasn’t… around,”

Hermione nodded hesitantly, “I guess I could work with that,”

“Good.” He said, “Spin.” The witch turned around in the royal blue, knee-length dress he had found and magicked onto her. “That one’s nice,” he admitted, “Shorter than the usual but I suppose that is what comes into fashion given your attire upon arrival here,”

“My L- Riddle!” a disembodied voice stumbled over words, eliciting a shriek from the time traveller as her war instincts kicked in like a car jumpstarting. Hermione impulsively pushed her husband behind her as she had done with Harry many times during her childhood as she brandished her wand against the jugular of the platinum blonde threat.

“Easy, Hermione,” Tom placated as he placed a hand on her shoulder, gently prying her wand away from one of his most devout sychophants (until Bellatrix Lestrange, that is), “It’s only Malfoy,”

Resisting the urge to curl his lips into a sneer at the degradation of his status, Abraxas Malfoy offered the frazzled witch a polite smile as he bowed to kiss her knuckles, “Abraxas Malfoy, milady,” he greeted kindly before resuming his proud pureblood posture.

Unbeknownst to the blonde, a flare of jealousy reared its ugly head within Tom’s chest as he watched his school peer’s pale lips touch what was now his hand by marriage. He could not interrupt for sake of his intervention appearing uncouth – which Tom was anything but – however, he tucked a mental note within his mind to remind him to ensure that none of his Knights touched Hermione after introducing her. She was his, even if he hadn’t wanted it to be so initially.

Clearing his throat to garner the new-father’s attention, Tom wrapped his arm around Hermione’s waist, pinching her side to warn her not to let the little squeal she had held in, out. “Abraxas, how wonderful it is to see you,”

“You as well, Riddle,”

“I’d appreciate a little advice in fashion for my wife, care to join?”

“W-wife?” Abraxas’ eyes had widened comically, his jaw lowered as he outwardly gaped at his former school mate before schooling his expression, “My apologies, I was unaware you had married,”

Tom shrugged as though it wasn’t a big deal, “It was a private union. Shall we?”

Abraxas glanced at them warily before nodding his head stiffly, “Any colour preferences?”

“Anything is fine, really. Just not lime green, yellows and bright reds,” Hermione said quickly, not giving Tom the chance to continue his control. It was her wardrobe after all. “They tend to unflatter my complexion greatly,”

The blonde nodded and began to manoeuvre through racks that Hermione hadn’t even noticed were there. He worked at an alarmingly fast pace, flicking through hangers and selecting those he liked and disliked with grunts of approval and disgust. Within ten minutes, Abraxas had managed to find an additional ten items that the witch wouldn’t normally have chosen had she been left to her own devices (to be fair she wouldn’t have chosen any of the clothes in this time period at all) and had returned to them in a significantly lighter mood.

“Have you got any shoes to match?” he asked as he presented the array of dresses and robes and cloaks.

“Not many. They’re mainly black.” Hermione replied.

Abraxas blinked, “How?” he said in a confounded tone, “Surely you have at least one other colour,”

Hermione shot him a tight lipped smile, “War,” was all she offered before she reached out to let the velvet material of one of the two burgundy dresses he had selected slip through her fingers, “This would suit golden or silver heels, no?”

“Abraxas,” Tom said as the man nodded his response to Hermione’s change in subject, “I have to collect a precious item. Take my witch to Flourish and Blotts, ensure she is satisfied. I won’t be long.” Pressing a kiss to Hermione’s temple, the dark haired man whispered, “Hepzibah Smith is arriving to pawn some ancient texts. Is she the one who has my birth-right locket?”

The curly haired witch nodded, “Give it to me when we get back to your little hovel,”

“Why would I do that, witch?”

“To stop yourself from lowering yourself to insanity by creating another horcrux?”

Tom smirked, “Correct you are,” he chucked her chin, “Try not to get into too much trouble within the hour,”

“You’re leaving me with him for a whole bloody hour?!”

Tom smirked and waved his fingers, “Later,” he said as he left the shop.

Hermione glanced back at where Abraxas had been standing, finding him to have taken a sudden interest in some truly hideously floral corsets as a large bag was floating behind him, “Shall we go?”

“Lets,”

**ooOoo**

“Would you quit acting like I’m going to hex you just for breathing?” Hermione finally snapped at the blonde as he stood stiff as a soldier on duty, “Be like that around Tom. He’s the only scary one. Ask your question,”

“How do you know I want to ask something?”

“You keep opening your mouth then shutting it after you make this funky face,” the witch mimicked the expression of a person who tasted something exceedingly sour, “As hilarious as it is, I want to know what.”

Abraxas sighed as he looked around conspicuously, “What do you see in Tom?”

“Organs, blood, muscles. Bones hopefully, haven’t gotten that far though, why?”

The blonde stared at her, unimpressed, “I mean romantically. How did you end up in marriage? When Tom was at Hogwarts he was always tempted to kill any witch that looked at him… like that,”

“Like what?”

“The way you do,”

Hermione blinked, “With eyes? I don’t know how else I’m meant to see,”

“You know what I mean,” Abraxas hissed as he sat in a nearby chair as Hermione perused the library she now found to be quite dull. The vast majority of her favourite reads would not be published until the sixties and none of the tomes resting on the shelves currently held any interest from her, “Do you really even know him? What he does…”

“Oh you’re little illegal play group? I know all about that, more than you ever will actually,” she responded evenly as she put another book back into the shelf, “I also know that your son is now your father’s puppet,”

“How dare you accuse my family of something like that!” Abraxas glared, the hand curled around his inherited cane tightening its grip as despite his angered façade, he knew for her words to be true as recently he had come to a similar conclusion regarding his two-year-old son and his father.

“Don’t fret, Tom doesn’t know. Yet, that is.” Hermione reassured, “I can help you get your son back, away from Ignatius,”

“How?” he sneered.

“Has Tom told you about his family ring?”

Abraxas denied with a shake of his head, “Though I have my suspicions that his diary that he always hides is also a… an anchor,”

Hermione smiled, “Help me stop him from initiating war. Make him take a more political route,”

“Can you not do that?”

“Oh, Abraxas,” she hummed with a small smirk, “I’m a woman, I can’t possibly understand politics.”

But she did. She understood them as well as the books had taught her; however, as a man grown under a roof that dealt with politics regularly, he would be a more fitting choice.

Abraxas understood that too.

“I sate Tom’s bloodlust, you help him become minister, I return Lucius to you,”

Abraxas didn’t even bother questioning how she knew his son’s name when he had yet to be introduced to the outer public, “I think we have come to an agreement Ms Riddle,”

Hermione fought back her grimace at the name, still quite unused to it. “Yes. Yes we have.”

**ooOoo**

“I want your locket,” Hermione demanded with crossed arms, a jutted hip and an impatiently tapping foot.

“Sharing is caring, Hermione. But you know I am not the sharing type,”

“Neither am I, give it!”

Tom moved away and kept it close to his chest, “At least give me a day to admire it.”

“Sunset is in five minutes,”

“A day is twenty four hours,” Tom cleverly reminded.

“You’ve had it for twelve,”

“And that is only half,”

“Tom!” Hermione huffed in frustration.

“Hermione!” he parroted, raising his pitch to mimic hers.

The witch narrowed her eyes at his pathetic attempt and swatted his shoulder with the book Abraxas had told her to get lest her husband _Crucio_ him for making her leave empty handed. “Tom. The locket. Now.”

“Such little trust in me,” the dark eyed man tutted, “I’m offended,”

“Tell somebody who gives a damn!” Hermione snatched the heirloom from his fingers, her lips curling into a sneer as she remembered how the horcrux-inhabited one from her original time had caused Ron to desert her and Harry due to minor jealousy amplified by the negative feelings the horcrux brought. Upon touch, she tensed, waiting for the looming dark presence to invade her only to find nothing happened. It was just an ancient necklace now. Nothing more, nothing less. “Can I have my beaded bag?”

Tom leaned back leisurely in his chair, his ankle crossed over his knee with his hands resting comfortably on his lap and an expectant eyebrow raised.

Hermione grimaced. He looked so eerily similar to Harry in that short moment as the final few warm rays of the setting sun cast a golden glow around his silhouette, “Please?”

He nodded, “Later. I’m going to cook today,”

“You are? Why?” as pathetic as it sounded, Hermione did not wish that he had suggested so due to his disliking of her cooking. Although, she couldn’t be blamed for the time she was supposed to be improving her culinary skills she had been preparing and fighting in war. Then there was simply eating whatever she could find.

“Should I have a reason to want to?”

“Well if it’s that you don’t like mine, then you should’ve told me a while ago!”

“I didn’t say I never liked your food,” Tom placated, “I like cooking,”

His efforts were futile. The mere fleeting thought of her lost past had triggered the tears she had forced herself to keep behind the emotional barriers she had reformed since her last outburst in front of Tom. Her shoulders shook with sobs muffled by the sleeves of the dress that had returned to its original state as the man’s shirt. Warm tears slid over her cheeks and soaked the carpet upon contact as she breathed in heavily in attempts to regain control over herself.

Tom, still painfully untutored in the art of comforting, sat quietly as his mind raced with different ideas on how he should calm her. “Hermione,” he called, “Sit,”

The crying witch moved to sit on the sofa opposite him, only to feel a tendril of his magic wrap around her and pull her body to his. The dark haired man shifted, making space for his witch to get comfortable on his lap – something he found to feel strangely pleasant. Tangling his pale fingers in her caramel curls, Tom rested his chin atop of her head as she slowly began to calm.

“I want to go home,” she murmured tiredly while casting a drying charm on the wet spot her tears had left on his shirt.

“You are home, silly witch,” he pressed a kiss to her neck, grinning into her skin when he felt her lips curl upwards on his shoulder, “And I don’t intend on letting you go.”


	7. Chapter 7

“I want a ring,” Hermione stated casually as the couple prepared themselves for a tedious Yuletide Ball hosted at Malfoy Manor. “Also how do I introduce myself?”

True to his word, Abraxas Malfoy had executed the nascent of plan: Make-Tom-Minister with Tom none the wiser through allowing his wife to host the annual elite get-together rather than the Rosiers. 

“Lady Riddle works, I suppose. Diamond?”

“No,” Hermione shook her head, referring to the gemstone, “Make it interesting,”

Tom smirked, “Shall I get you something similar to what darling Walburga was wearing the other day?”

The curly haired witch shuddered as she remembered the monstrosity of an heirloom the Black witch had adorned during one of the Knights of Walpurgis’ meetings. Though she despised the haughty witch (especially due to her first impression as a portrait in Grimmauld Place in the 90s), Hermione had managed to convince her husband to allow not only males with connections, but females exerting extraordinary power too. 

Something that most Black children had. 

“You dare get me anything like that hideous thing and I’ll burn both of your horcruxes into crispy cinders,” she threatened with narrowed eyes, her vinewood wand twirling between her fingers. 

As intimidating of a stance she had adopted, the witch could never quite frazzle the immortal man. He would simply incline his head with a devilish smirk planted on his sinful lips, before pressing them to hers with an amused gleam in his eye. 

“Of course,” he pressed a kiss to her unjewelled palm, “Expect it soon, my saviouress,”

** ooOoo **

“You don’t seem to like the name Riddle, yet you won’t change it to Gaunt. Why?” Hermione questioned as the couple gracefully glided across the lengthy distance from the gates to the darkishly beautiful manor. 

“The Gaunt name is irreparable. Pureblood or not. Their insanity and their disrespect for their ancestry lost them all respect,” Tom explained, the hand hosting the ring containing both his soul and the resurrection stone resting on her seemingly dainty one clutching loosely to his inner elbow, “Riddle — as much as I hate my father — is new. Fresh.” there was an excited glimmer in his eyes that most would disregard as a trick of the light, though Hermione knew him well enough, “Proving my heritage and then keeping a good public face would raise the reputation of Slytherin. Especially with a muggle name.”

“You’ll gain supporters from more than simply the aristocratic?” Tom nodded in confirmation. “You might end up losing some of your original Knights then,” Hermione pointed out wisely as she smiled at a passing albino peacock strutting in the lavish gardens.

“True. However, popularity with the press and the wider public will gain weight. And with the Malfoys and the Blacks ranking close to Wizarding Royalty had there been a monarchy, then the remainder are inconsequential.”

Hermione hummed as they drew close to the daunting building. Although much time had passed since her deposition into the 1950s and her torture in the very building she was now acquaintances with the wards, the witch still couldn’t control the fear lingering within her, causing her to hesitate in climbing the first step to the archaic door.

“Hermione,” Tom breathed closely to her ear as her grip subconsciously tightened in the presence of the location of her nightmares. They both hoped the Ball wasn’t anywhere near that particular drawing room. “Little witch, we shall only remain for a few hours. Excuse yourself for having caught—“

“No, no,” the nineteen year old witch shook her head reverently, tamed caramel curls hitting the luxurious dress Cygnus had gifted her for her birthday softly, “I have to get over it someday. Technically it hasn’t happened. And it won’t.” she steeled herself.

Tom was fond of his wife. He still did not yet understand the pool of love, though he had a faint feeling that he was drawing close to it even if the words would never leave his lips for his witch’s ears to hear. Bending down to pick up a stray, white feather; the man placed it in her hands before hovering his over them. Closing his eyes, he felt his magic slither towards the inanimate object and coil around it like the predator his power (and he) was. 

Tom picked up the transfigured object to assess it for any faults that needed tweaking. The white feather had been manipulated into the shape of a floral, rose gold tiara. 

Collecting a small pebble dusted to the corners of the staircase, the wizard duplicated it before waving his hand over to effortlessly transfigure them into diamonds.

Hermione gasped, “Are they real?” she asked as she examined the gems that twinkled under the flitting lights of Malfoy magic. 

“Pure,” Tom said as he silently attached them to the tiara, “At least, until a directed Finite,”

“It’s beautiful,” Hermione complimented in awe, her breath catching in her throat when she felt him adjusting her hair to clip it in.

He smiled — a small, handsome grin he had developed over the time he had spent with Hermione (which she hoped to enlarge to a laugh later on). “Rose gold suits you.” 

Another kiss to her temple and they were inside. 

** ooOoo **

“My, Abraxas,” Hermione greeted as she sipped a glass of champagne while her husband conversed with people of political power, “This is a nice party,”

The blonde man ensured there were no eavesdroppers by placing a carefully cast Muffliatio, then he snorted, “Nice? I’m trying not to fall asleep standing up!”

Hermione grinned her agreement, “Tom’s doing well, I take it?”

“Oh, more than well,” Abraxas praised, “He’s a natural politician. I thought I’d have to guide him into meeting the people that’d help him attain control over the Ministry but he’s gone and done it all by himself,”

Hermione allowed herself a concealed smile behind her glass of alcohol at her husband’s success. This was another step for a brighter future where her past didn’t exist. “Thank you, Malfoy,” she said before commenting offhandedly, “How do you think Ignatius Malfoy would look under six feet of soil?” 

A shaky breath escaped the blonde man before a cunning smirk grew on his lips, “Wonderful,” his eyes lightened at the idea of regaining his son back, “Absolutely wonderful,”

** ooOoo **

Tom was leaning against a bare table, surrounded by men who would unconsciously help him pave his way into the Minister’s Office when Hermione had intertwined her dainty fingers with his and rested her head against his shoulder tiredly.

He placed a kiss on her shimmer-powdered eyelids — a form of affection he had noticed becoming more subconscious than purposeful — and introduced her to the hoard of men while wrapping a protective arm around her waist. “My wife, Hermione,”

Jealousy and disgust sparked within the deep pits of his dark being as he observed the lustful leers and appraisal of her aesthetic appearance present on every man he had been conversing with’s faces. They were all married with their own wife and children to care for; his witch was only for his pleasure, nobody else’s. 

Clearing his throat, he caught their attention, “Gentlemen, we’ll be taking your leave,” he turned to eye the Delacour Patriarch, the only male that hadn’t thought his wife attractive, “I’ll be looking forward to future communication, Monsieur Delacour. Have a pleasant journey home,”

A final dazzling smile and the couple were escorted to Abraxas’ private floo and were whisked away through brick walls until they toppled through the fireplace in their adjoined living room. 

Hermione had barely made it to the sofa before falling asleep, exhausted from the extensive social dances and verbal tangos attempting to find the next demoralising piece of gossip that held the potential destroy. Tom realised that he too was tired when the chime of the clock in the nearby town had tolled midnight. 

Carrying the sleeping witch to their shared bed, the dark haired wizard eyed the white oxford hanging on the armrest of the single desk chair in the room. Smirking, he removed it from its hanger and proceeded to undress his wife — first with her heels, then her dress and corset and the modest stockings she wore underneath to shield herself from the cold. 

Tom hushed her whimper as he buttoned the shirt before removing his formal robes. Placing a kiss to her neck, he wrapped his arms possessively around her, as though doing such would remove the appreciative glances she had received during the night from any other but himself. 

“Tom,” she whispered as her eyes fluttered open yet shut just as quickly, “Tom?”

“Here, little witch,” he murmured against her throat, “Sleep, you’re tired,”

“No,” she denied with a yawn, “I’m hungry.”

“Didn’t you eat a bit at the party?”

Hermione snorted, “Did you know that taking even a single finger food is considered bad etiquette?” her left hand moved to tangle itself within his dark locks, “Go make me spaghetti,”

“That isn’t something I have the ingredients for, witch,” 

Hermione groaned as she blindly reached for the nightstand and fumbled for her wand. Upon finally grasping a hold of it, she waved it over herself to remove the cosmetics she had applied. “What can be made really really fast?”

“Egg?”

“I can’t wait for more imports and exports to be introduced.” Hermione said with a frown, not wanting an egg, “I’ll cook you my mother’s favourite chicken spaghetti— that reminds me, do you remember a boy named James Granger? And a girl, Dorothy Swan?”

Tom tensed as his memories guided him back to Wool’s Orphanage; a time he would rather forget than reminisce. “The names ring a bell,” he said indifferently, his voice failing to betray his confusion in the manner his curious gaze did. 

“They are— were my grandparents,” she sighed as her fingers twirled an ebony curl, “Dorothy is a witch, you know.”

“Is she?” he queried, “I never sensed an aura around her...”

Hermione smiled faintly as Tom inadvertently mimicked what he had said during their first stand off but in a much tamer manner.

“She’s average in magical prowess but she’s a genius in potions.” the witch explained, “James is from a long line of squibs. Or that’s what I found in my research in the original timeline.” she began to draw abstract patterns on the soft flesh of his pale cheek, “With Dorothy’s magical blood being diluted with muggles so much, the magic line stayed dormant in my parents and somehow reconciled in me.”

“You are a descendant of Dagworth-Granger,” Tom stated in awe. 

Hermione shrugged, another yawn escaping her, “Time messes up a lot of things. I’m not quite sure what I am, or what my purpose is anymore,”

The dark wizard placed his finger on her lips, ending her short rant of confusion regarding her life and existence, “You are my saviouress, My Hermione,” he purred in the quiet of what was once  his and was now  their room. “You now hold the responsibility in helping me continue Salazar Slytherin’s bloodline. No pressure,” he grinned. 

Hermione bit her trembling lip, willing herself not to cry at his sweet words and light jest. She tried to remind herself of his silver tongue — quick to say what was wanted to be heard — but found that she couldn’t as she stared at her husband, Tom Riddle’s eyes that betrayed his sincerity.

Perhaps he didn’t love her in that moment, but he could assure anyone that he was most certainly a multitude of steps closer than he had been five months ago. 

And to think that it had all started because she felt the need to reprimand and admonish his former, psychotic, petulant self. Well... Tom was confident when he said he had learned his lesson and thus had earned his reward for his almost-redemption. 

After all, as strong a persuasive hand Hermione independently held, Tom’s influence was far greater. She swayed him away from destruction and he dragged her between what was considered Light and what was considered Dark.

And despite his previous grandstand failure, Tom knew that with Hermione there would be little chance of it ever happening again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fin.


End file.
